


The Tea Boy and the Coffee King

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: AU, Gen, Humour, possible crack!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usual disclaimer: Characters owned by Davies, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I don't own any of it, except maybe the idea for the story, etc. etc. etc., no infringement of copyright intended, no money being made, etc, etc. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.</p><p>WARNING: rated for swearing, just erring on the side of caution. Okay so this is nearly a crack!fic and almost a drabble but not quite. It might go somewhere but for now it's complete. Reviews might determine otherwise though. This is a small AU (obviously) with John and Sherlock working for Torchwood. The Battle Butler and the Battlefield Medic have more in common than first appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson knows when to stay out of Sherlock's way by now and now is definitely one of those times. Sherlock is annoyed, bored and any moment now...

"Bored!" he declares, to no one in particular. A shot rings out and bits of tile chip and spray off the sign that reads TORCHWOOD across the tiles above the old couch. He empties the clip and very soon there is a smiley face centered around the 'wood', the 'eyes' are in the double O. There is a screech from Myfanwy and she takes refuge in her aerie at the unexpected noise. Sherlock watches her with his pale eyes, interest sparking in them. There had better not be another experiment brewing, John thinks. Ianto will kill the consulting detective if he messes with the dinosaur.

"Fucking hell, I nearly stabbed myself with a scalpel, you moronic twat!" Owen pokes his head out of the autopsy bay. "You're fucking insane... I can see why Kathy Swanson calls you Freak!"

"Hey!" The outraged shout echoes across the cavernous space and Jack is at his office door, gun drawn and glowering menacingly. Owen has seen that look before and beats a retreat, leaving Jack to fix Sherlock with a withering glare. It doesn't work. Sherlock's been on the business end of hundreds of Mycroft's withering looks and none of them have worked yet. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you!" Jack tries. "I thought we were being invaded. What the fuck are you doing?" Sherlock returns the look and Jack relaxes his stance but not his anger. "If you want to let off steam, we have a firing range for that!" Where Sherlock is concerned, he is out of his depth.

"Boring!" Sherlock snaps. "It's more fun up here."

Jack glares at him and retreats, glowering darkly. Sometimes, having the grandsons of Brigadier General Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart working for him is a burden he has to bear. Sherlock is a loose cannon and Mycroft is simply irritating, but it's not like he can sack them after all...

**0o0o0o0**

Ianto Jones knows when to stay out of Jack's way and now is definitely one of those times. Sherlock is enough to try anyone's patience and Jack is suffering. He takes his cue and goes to the kitchen to brew a soothing cup of his best blend, to find John Watson already there, kettle in hand.

"I...um...thought a cup of tea might work," John offers. "Sherlock likes tea. Calms him down. Not treading on your territory, I hope..." He squares his shoulders, a little bit of the military still evident in his stance and demeanor. Working for UNIT hasn't endeared him to Jack either but John is at least able to exercise some influence over their difficult recruit and so Jack tolerates his presence. Besides, he was on the Brig's personal staff for a while and that holds weight where Jack is concerned. He's also a good field medic and for once, Owen has found someone he can work with.

"The Captain likes my coffee," Ianto replies. "Calms him down too. I don't mind the invasion, unless you mess with my coffee machine. Nobody messes with my coffee machine. You can ask Owen what happened when he tried." John can imagine. Ianto is quiet, like him. Ianto is proficient with a gun, like him. It's always the quiet ones who are the more dangerous, after all.

The two men nod, in perfect accord. John puts the kettle on and Ianto wields the coffee machine with practiced ease. "I took the liberty of buying milk," John says. "I saw we were a bit low. It's the same at home. Sherlock's always using it up for his experiments." Ianto nods. Wisely, he doesn't ask and John doesn't elaborate. Ianto is used to keeping his mouth closed and anticipating what is needed. It's actually nice to find someone else who does the same.

When the coffee is brewed, John inhales appreciatively. "That smells amazing," he says. "You make coffee like Sherlock deduces - brilliantly."

Ianto smiles. "Thank you," he says, a little shyly, and slides a cup across the counter top toward John. The doctor's eyes widen.

"Thanks." He slides a cup of his tea the other way. Ianto smiles. They both take an experimental sip.

"Wow," John says.

"Amazing," Ianto offers. "I suggest you make Tosh her tea from now on. She'll love you for it."

"She will?" John's eagerness is obvious. He's liked the shy tech expert from the moment they shook hands. Ianto has noticed this of course, but far be it from him to act as matchmaker. His relationship history is nothing to shout about after all. Still, nothing wrong in giving things a push in the right direction.

"Yes, she will. Make her a cup. She likes very little milk and no sugar." John watches him go, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

**0o0o0o0**

Tosh comes up from the archives at a run, expecting a lock-down at the very least. She spies Ianto going into Jack's office with the coffee and wonders what happened. Everything must be okay. She must have been wrong. She could have sworn she heard shots though. She is surprised to see Ianto hasn't left her customary teacup on her desk. She concedes that as she was in the archives, he probably didn't think she would be back before it went cold. She walks to her work station, seeing Sherlock stretched out on the couch with fingers steepled beneath his chin, apparently asleep. The wall above is pockmarked with bullet holes. She frowns, her delicate brows drawn together as she tries in vain to work out what happened.

"He got bored," says a voice at her elbow. "Shot the wall." John Watson is standing there, two cups of tea in his hands. "Oh, here you go. Made this for you," he says with a smile.

"The wall had it coming!" says a voice from the couch.

Tosh blinks and then drags her eyes from the couch back to the man who is still standing beside her. "Thank you," She answers, taking the tea. He pauses, waiting. Ah, he wants to know if it's alright. She takes a sip, expecting that she'll have to try to smile and tell him how nice it is even when it isn't. He has a puppy look in his eyes. She's too nice to tell him if it's awful but Ianto is the only one who can make tea the way she likes it. As the taste hits her tongue, her eyebrows rise. It's delicious. "Wow," she says. His smile lights up his face and he nods and carries the other cup to where Sherlock is reclining. He places the cup on the coffee table, near Sherlock's head.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock doesn't move, but the acknowledgement is nice.

"Where's my coffee?" Owen complains.

**0o0o0o0**

It's time to go home. Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and John holds the long Bellstaff coat for him to put on. Jack holds his arms back and Ianto helps him on with his RAF greatcoat. John and Ianto catch each other's eyes and smile. What is it about these long coats? Every hero just has to have one.

Tosh studies John and Ianto as they prepare to leave. There are alike in so many ways, and polar opposites in others. Even their names are the same. Ianto is Welsh for John. They are both devoted to their men and from what she's seen, their men both take them somewhat for granted. Although John is showing interest in her, to which she finds she isn't averse. They are, after all, both good looking men. One is tall and dark, the other short and blond. Both are attentive to detail. Both make excellent hot beverages and anticipate others' needs. Owen got Ianto's nick name wrong though. John is much more suited to the title of Tea Boy. She allows herself a small satisfied smile and watches the Tea Boy and the Coffee King as they leave.


	2. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets some unexpected tuition and Sherlock receives a present. 
> 
> The title is a passing homage to the all-girl classical musical group Bond. Eos Chater, one of it's members, was Ben's violin coach during the last series and I recommend checking her blog out (link below) for the entry concerning her adventures on set. Sherlock on the Fiddle is very revealing, the lucky woman. 
> 
> http://earthobservingsystem.tumblr.com/
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack stands back and surveys the results of his shooting. Not bad, all told. One of the Weevils is missing its ear and another would probably have trouble procreating from now on but the heart shots are consistent. Jack is surprised to hear a tutting noise behind him. He turns to find John Watson leaning against the door and frowning.

"What?" Jack demands, irritated.

"Um...Nothing. Just... nothing. Don't mind me. I'm just getting in the way."

"Doctor?" Jack plants his feet squarely and folds his arms. Momentarily he is caught by a memory of a different doctor who would also look at him that way; the way that says he is not sure whether Jack wants to hear what he has to say but it needs saying anyway. "What were you tutting about? You don't like my shooting?"

"No, it's not that... it's..." John sighs, dramatically. "You could be so much better...." John shrugs. "You've picked up some bad habits, that's all. I can see where your stance could improve from a small adjustment... You need to lower your shoulder a little..." He stops and shakes his head as if he cannot be arsed to say what he feels will be rejected anyway. He knows Jack has been less than happy about their conscription to Torchwood. "You know what? What do I know?" John turns to leave, hunching his shoulders defensively.

Jack knows he was about to object to the ‘bad habits’ comment but he suppresses it. Actually it is quite possibly true. "Doctor... John? Come back, please.” Jack swallows his pride. Oh, his doctor would be so proud of him now. “Never let it be said that I couldn't learn. You wanna come show me what you're talking about?" Jack grins disarmingly and invites John over with a dramatic sweep of his arm. The ex-soldier ducks his head and then, drawing himself to his full height, he walks over with straight-backed military bearing and pauses by the table. He picks up and carefully fits on his head a pair of ear defenders, then his gaze falls onto the array of weaponry. A range of hand guns lie there but John picks up the black Sig Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistol and hefts it. It feels comfortable and familiar in his hand and he slips the clip in and racks the slide. Satisfied he steps up beside Jack and smiles a little. Taking a stance, he sights the targets, his eyes finding each one in turn. He brings up the gun one-handed, then looses off six shots in close succession, each one finding and striking a different target around the range. Jack whistles low and appreciatively. Each target has a neat hole where its throat should be.

"Draw your gun," John orders and something in his tone makes Jack obey. "Take aim," John tells him and Jack brings his arm up. "Stop!" John says and comes to stand behind him, up close and personal. Jack grins. He wonders briefly if Ianto is watching on CCTV. He wouldn't put it past the Tea Boy and the Coffee King to double team him on this. He'll find out later if they were working together.

In height, John is just about able to sight along Jack’s arm. The man seems not to let his significantly shorter height bother him but extends his arm along Jack's adjusting his aim and then his hands are moving, adjusting his stance, his hips and...everything. God, those hands on his hips almost burn through the fabric of Jack's trousers. John's touch is knowledgeable and sure. _A surgeon's touch_ , Jack finds himself thinking, _precise, confident, oh God...._ "Okay, try now. Breathe in. Aim. Fire!" The report rings out and the shot has flown true. The paper weevil is looking a bit annoyed, with only one eye. "Hm, better. Now observe your targets and try for more than one. Don't move your feet though." Jack tries again, missing one and taking the top off the next one's head.

"You're making me nervous!" he complains.

"You? Nervous? Pull the other one." John smiles.

"Oh, I'd like to, believe me."

"Fire the damn gun, Captain," John says exasperatedly, pulling rank, adding that edge to his voice that has people running to obey his orders. Jack’s eyebrows twitch in amusement and he tries again, this time with better results. Specially since John has stepped in close again.

"I don't suppose I could interest you in dinner?" Jack tries to make light of it.

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Interested?"

"I think I might need to discuss it with Sherlock."

"You sure? Couldn't we just..." Jack frowns and shrugs, suggestively. "Ianto might occupy him for the evening?"

"I think we need to talk, Captain," John suggests and puts the gun away."All of us," he adds and walks out of the room.

 

**0o0o0o0o0**

 

Sherlock is rapidly thinking that this was a bad idea. Ianto has invited him down into the archives, but sherlock being Sherlock he has failed to realise what an honour this is. In all his years of knowing Jack, Ianto has never invited him down to this particular part of the archives. The place is full of boxes, files and unwanted wreckage of a past age. Sherlock is at once curious and instinctively shy of getting dirty. But something has caught his eye. A violin case.

"What is a violin case doing down here?"

"Fell through the rift in 1894. Catalogued and placed in storage. This is not just any violin though."

"No," Sherlock breathes, opening the case and staring in amazement and reverence at the contents. "It's a Guarneri..." he hefts it, feels the weight, almost inhales the beauty. Those gorgeously smooth curves, glowing wood and elegance incarnate. “Ianto, where did this come from?" Sherlock’s voice is awed. By contrast, the f-holes are slightly rough, the details marred by clumsy carving, but Sherlock is mesmerised.

"That's what I want you to tell me,” Ianto says. He already knows but he wants confirmation.

“It’s early 18th Century Italian. Its maker was Bartolomeo Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri, one of the foremost makers in history. He rivalled Stradivari in instrument making.”

“What, as in Stradivarius?” Sherlock nods agreement, long fingers caressing the instrument as he examines it. He finds it perfect, despite the imperfections.

“Look, there, see?” Sherlock is pointing to a set of initials on the wood. “It’s the nomina sacra, a Christogram, I H S. It stands for the Greek letters iota-eta-sigma. Guarneri always signed his violins with the nomina sacra.” Sherlock is very taken with the instrument. His hands run over it repeatedly, as if he cannot quite believe what he is holding. “This is quite possibly late 1730s, early 1740s. Guarneri didn’t make many instruments, he was dead by 1744, 46 years old. Look here, see how crudely this is carved? Shoddy, almost. He didn’t have the patience for the fine details. Indeed, his later creations seem to have a lot of carelessness and haste in their construction. Stradivari lived until he was 93 and produced some amazing violins but Guarneri’s rival them for tone and beauty. Some scholars have speculated that the lack of workmanship on Guarneri’s part was due in part to illness. Whatever the truth, nobody can deny that the ones with this slipshod method have by far the richer tone.” Sherlock plucks a string, grimaces and shakes his head. “Can’t expect it to be in tune after all this time.” He begins twiddling the pegs and plucking the strings, bringing the instrument into tune as easily as breathing. He works reverently, almost in awe of the thing he’s holding. He is treating it almost like a lover, murmuring and soothing. His hands are gentle and sure, confident in his actions. Watching him, Ianto shivers and it has nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the archives.

“Here,” Ianto passes the accompanying bow to him. “This was with it.” Sherlock rosins the bow carefully and takes the fine amber-coloured wood in his hands. He tucks it beneath his chin, the bow is poised for a moment, then an opening chord is played confidently, the amazing tone ringing round the arched roof of the archive storage area, drawing a gasp from Ianto. Sherlock plays an arpeggio and his eyes close on the richly enchanting sound. It leaves both men momentarily stunned.

“Amazing,” Ianto comments softly.

“Elementary,” Sherlock answers, his voice soft and reverent.

“I always wish I had learned how to play,” Ianto murmurs. “I dare say you can have it, if you wish. It isn’t dangerous. No rift signature left, no readings at all. Without the notes about its arrival, you’d never know where it came from.”

“You’re giving it to me?” Sherlock’s face registers shock.

“Seems right. It needs playing.”

“Ianto, you do not simply give away a Guarneri. It’s worth...hundreds of thousands. You do not simply give away a violin like this. There are no more than a few in existence. Any virtuoso would give their eye teeth and a couple of limbs to own one.”

“Hopefully not their arms then,” Ianto snarks and grins.

“Why would you do this for me?” Sherlock asks, genuinely puzzled.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well...” Sherlock is flustered, obviously unable to process the generosity. “Look,” he offers awkwardly, “I could give you lessons, if you like?”  
“That would be good. Thanks.” Ianto smiles and both men’s eyes meet. After the initial awkwardness of new colleagues, they have finally found something they both appreciate. “Well, it’s definitely less boring that sitting waiting for John to come back from...whatever it is he is doing.,” Sherlock concedes. “Where is he, by the way?”

“I believe they’re in the shooting range."

“Who’s they?”

“Jack and John...”

**0o0o0o0o0o0**

Jack and John walk companionably up to the main floor again, hearing the strains of Mendelssohn on the air. They look at each other in curiosity and hurry on a little, eager to see where the virtuoso performance is emanating from. Sure enough, there is Sherlock, standing on the balcony, throwing himself into the performance.

“You finally found someone worthy of that old violin then?” Jack calls and Ianto grins. The music stutters to a halt.

“It is not an old violin!” comes the indignant shout. Sherlock is brandishing the bow. “It was created in 1740, by a Master Luthier, you philistine!” he challenges and takes up the bow again, this time sweeping into the sweetly exquisit strains of Vaughan Williams’ Lark Ascending. Everybody falls silent, unable to resist the siren sounds of the hauntingly beautiful rendition. Tears spring to Tosh’s eyes, it is so beautiful. Even Owen remains quiet.

“The stage lost a fine musician, just as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime,” Mycroft murmurs. John smiles and nods in agreement. The elder Holmes brother emerged from Jack’s office on hearing his younger sibling begin to play. The look in his eyes is both fond and proud. With a flourish, the piece ends and Sherlock takes a bow as everybody bursts into spontaneous applause.

“Okay, people, let’s get back to work,” Jack orders, a glint in his eye as he watches the Tea Boy and the Coffee King head for the kitchen. Oh boy, do they all have some stuff to talk about.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews welcome, Kudos appreciated. Thank you for reading.


End file.
